Viva La Resistance
by KetamineSquared
Summary: War breaks out across the globe, and regalias are pitted against each other with familiar faces on every side. Is old love and friendship torn apart, or brought back together? ChristophexGreg, K2, Cartyle, Stendy, Creekomas, and a hundred other pairings.


_**All right, this is a collab between K-Squared and ketamine . methanol :D It's based off an RP we're doing, and the main pairings... well, there's a lot, so I guess you should just read and find out, yeah? :D Hope you enjoy and don't forget to review! Feedback is always appreciated.**_

**Chapter One**

The television flickered weakly through the darkness of the room, narrating along in fluent French dubbing over the English conversations in the background to drown out the accented babble as the people gestured madly about, the people at the broadcast of the meeting hooting and screaming in favour of their wretched country. Cigarette smoke misted the screen as the young woman on the tele babbled away to France in an emergency broadcast, the background image illustrating marching lines of men with weapons and fleets of airships rolling through the skies.

"_... as the opposing lines of offence stretch toward the border from the English Channel into Amiens and Rennes. Civilians are advised to evacuate their homes immediately in the audited locations for review and protection. Civilians are encouraged to not interfere; drafts have been made to each family and remaining townspeople are being dismissed from their homes as we speak. The Neo-Nazi's have finally declared a call of war after multiple governmental figures were taken down within the last month in the ongoing debate on land and ownership..._"

The report continued but the man watching was no longer paying attention. Licking his lips as he watched the background scenes, he marvelled the activity of the English with interest, sorting carefully through papers within the hold of his hands. His cigarette bobbed on his lip as he sighed through his nose, expelling smoke again throughout the little burrow that he called a home. There was a pretentious moment where last week's assassination of one of the British leaders was displayed for public viewing. The bullet was a clean shot while he stood on his podium, and a small smirk curled onto the brunette's lips as he admired his work, finally finding the desired page in his rifling. Uncapping a red sharpie, he bit the lid between his teeth as he doodled a red bullet hole in the centre of the man's forehead, striking x's through his eyes and a frown on his ugly mug.

"Pas problème... pas difficile..." he muttered, curling his fingers around the lid of the marker with his cigarette still neatly balanced between his lips. Capping the utensil, he tossed it lazily over his shoulder before sliding his papers back into his folder, taking a deserving sniff before tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, withdrawing a deep breath.

"OIIII! MAMA! Nous sommes déplaçer ce soir. Emballez vos merde... L'Angleterre a fait guerre." There was an assortment of furious shrieking from the kitchen as he sniffed indignantly, rising from his chair and stuffing his manila folder within the safe hold of his jacket before zipping it up. Strolling into the kitchen as the blustering woman cussed loudly in fluent French, he patted her cheek and kissed her on top of her greying head before musing to himself, grabbing an apple off of the counter and taking a righteous bite out of it. Christophe turned to her as she muttered something to him quietly about where they were going, and he laughed at her, speaking in heavily accented English.

"Not me pairmanentlee, mama. Just you. I 'ave beeznis to take care of een ze war, you know zees."

Angrily his mother turned on him, smacking his arm. "NON! You said you wair not going to be drafted! You told me I would not looz my baby to war! I 'ave already lost a spouse. You are a liar of a son!" She crippled slightly against the counter, and he looked down at her with bored pity, patting her on the shoulder. "Neizzair of us are dying in zees war. France weel win, Mama. You know I weel nevair die. E'specially not at ze 'ands of English Nah'zee peegs."

The woman seemed unconvinced as he stepped by her after back into the livingroom, glancing up slightly as he spied the television once more. Once again he was no longer drawn in by the babbling of the woman on the screen, but the picture displayed on it, and the headline beneath.

_Commander Thorne á la Bureau d'Angleterre_

Christophe stared for a long time, slowly straightening as he stuffed his hand within the holds of his none-too-neatly ironed jacket, flipping the manila envelope open as he stood, carefully pulling out a paper and staring at its contents, before holding it up to hang adjacent by the screen, comparing the face on the screen to the photograph and name at hand with a bitter smile.

"A shame we should meet again zees way, Gregory..."

Christophe DeLorne left his home in silence; it would be a weary trip to Rennes.

_----_

Gregory Thorne, the commander of the troops currently pushing their way into France, was standing in a meeting room with his top-ranking officers, looking around at the six other men with a calm, arrogant look on his face. He knew that he deserved this position. Despite the fact that their group had dropped from ten to seven in less than a month, Gregory was unafraid. He was not going to be assassinated anytime soon. He kept his head down, allowed others to relay messages as he plotted the next movement, directing the Neo-Nazi troops on where to go, on what to do.

It was the perfect war. Hitler had been the perfect leader; his idea of world conquest had been perfect. This time, they were using an updated plan, including not only Hitler's 'enemies', the Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals, along with countless others, but every race. There was no race that would survive the holocaust they were wreaking, aside from the Anglo-Saxons. Britain had controlled most of the world once, the leader, the boss, and then it had fallen from grace.

Gregory was in charge of bringing it back. There were two people higher than him: General Atkins, a man of great renown, who happened to pass most of his information onto Greg directly. Above that was Denzel Brown, the 'Hitler' of their operation and a reclusive man who was constantly surrounded by guards. Gregory had met him but once, and he cut an imposing figure, a man who matched the cruelty and intensity behind his eyes.

Gregory was not as large as Denzel, or, rather, most of the other commanders, but he was imposing at all times, his blue eyes leaving an impression in those beneath him and anyone he came in contact with. He was arrogant, but he had every right to be; barely in his thirties and he was already commanding the largest invasion since the D-Day invasion of 1944. A cruel smirk passed his face; the circumstances were reversed. Instead of saving France, they were destroying it. Gregory, for one, had been pleased they had come to France, first.

He had someone he needed to find here.

The blonde looked around the room once again, that same unfeeling smirk that never touched his eyes plastered across his face. "We need to be in Paris by tomorrow evening, at least. I know we can push the troops forward and arrive there in time, yes? I will stay in Rennes for the time being; there is business to be done here. I will be in Paris by next week, however, I expect the plans we conferenced about earlier to be already well underway."

Another quick glance around and then he called the room to attention, the officers beneath him standing immediately. Greg spoke, his voice icy. "Dismissed. Get some rest. You are useless to me if you are tired."

The men shuffled from the room as Gregory lifted his laptop, sliding it into a case and flicking his eyes around once again, nervously. He adjusted the scarlet epaulet on his shoulder; his uniform was a throwback to the Revolutionary War, fitting his calm demeanour at almost all times.

He sighed, leaving the meeting room and going back to the room that had been given him on the second floor. Gregory stepped inside, guards in the hallway outside, and walked over to the bed, unbuttoning his coat and licking his lips, looking around. He hung it up and began working on the rest of his clothing, unbuttoning his shirt swiftly and laying it on the bed before working his pants off, setting them down as well and then simply laying on his bed, senses fully heightened and a gun nearby as he stared at the ceiling.

He hadn't been in France in years. It was bringing back unpleasant memories. Well, no, that wasn't true. The events were pleasant. The parting had not been. The blonde fiddled with the fleur-de-lis around his neck, a necklace he kept concealed beneath his uniform, and sighed, letting his usually arrogant visage slip into a rather sad one.

He was tired, and although he knew that the cause they were pushing for was the best, he felt… empty. Sad, sort of. Maybe he was just lonely. A prostitute might dispel those feelings…

----

People were already going through perilous levels of physical pushing to get out of Rennes, mixed between thrusting threads of Englishman as they poured their operations through the city. People fell left and right, stragglers were caught and held prisoner or dragged back to various bases. No mercy was felt with the revolutionary air of human equality; men, women and children alike were obtained, or destroyed.

It was almost enough to make Christophe sick.

Seeing the English trump through his territory really made him question the past of things. Hanging upside-down amongst gargoyles atop a clock tower was a less than pleasant location for hiding, however it was the simplest way of disguise. The common flaw in every human was their common misguidance, and forgetting to look up. A few had, of course, but in the sleek black clothing with blood red trim to blend him well into the fiery-clouded sky, he blended will with his stony, monstrous comrades as they roared off the apex of the clock tower in a resemblance of good architecture and a nesting place for birds.

By night fall the clocktower was as invaded as the rest of Rennes and likely Amiens to the north-east. Occasionally a patrolman would peer out of the window yards and yards below his perch, but all would make the common-law mistake of all the rest, and it made him smirk. Where he was not usually one to typically roam the skyline, it was an interesting switch. The grounds far below, however, were no place for anyone but the English to be trapezing right now if they valued their lives. As the final fingers of sunlight bled away over the horizon, Christophe swung up among his stone friends, perched on the edge of the roof, and carefully unzipping his travelling pack.

Instead of a cigarette he pulled out a stick of Nicorette with bitter hatred, sticking the piece into his mouth and trying to pretend that the zap of nicotine was in the form of smoke. There was no time to risk anyone spotting the ember atop the roof, however, and it would have to do for soothing his addiction for the time being. Pulling a pair of binoculars from his pack, he set them to an acceptable level before reclining against the rooftop and peering down to his destination. It would take less than ten minutes to scale the buildings to the scout towers, where men could already be seen tucking in for the night. Spotlights shrouded the location like pale ghosts through the dark as patrols littered the building on each and every balcony.

This was way too easy.

Swinging down from the clocktower in a matter of moments, the man moved like a bat through the night. Perching soon atop the residential building of the higher marked candidates of the Anglo-Saxons, he licked his lips tenderly, hanging once more like some kind of night-going animal from the edge of the building, and feeling very humorously like Spiderman.

"Aye, mate. See you in the morning, rest up, aye?" A voice from within the window spoke strongly.

"That I will sir, and yourself. Long day tomorrow. Paris!" A second followed, nearer to the open window.

"Paris!" the other man toasted, before the door was shut, and only idle movement could be heard from within.

Moments passed before the man peered out the window with interest to inspect the city with care, raising a lit cigarette to his lip. He barely had time to take a lasting drag when a pair of gloved hands slid down, snapping the gentleman's neck with one swift movement and no hesitation. Chris bit back a swear as the cigarette dropped from the man's lips as his body went limp over the windowsill, just managing to snatch it in his hand. The embers pit into his palm as they outed in his fist, but he made no noise, taking that second to drag the fellow up and out of the window. A careful stuffing of the bastard down a chimney and Christophe was safely tucked away in his room, with the curtains drawn, the lights low, and the window shut.

He admired the uniform now carefully fixed onto his figure. The other fellow had been slightly fatter than himself but it fitted well enough to pass as his own as he carefully gelled his hair with the fellow's comb into the acceptable form that was prominent in style amongst the Englishmen in order to reflect that of their leaders. He felt filthy in the freshly pressed clothes, his own carefully hidden. His accent would not be a problem; plenty of Francophones had immediately sided with the English. Despite the dispute of war in land, there were still many in France not pleased with the government or the organization. Many sided with England in the political affairs - the most popular group, of course, was that of Les Renégats, or, rather, The Renegades.

These people disappointed him. Traitors at best, but it was England's own fault for trusting the French, for there were pieces within the Renegades that Christophe knew were definitely not there to help any petty Anglo-Saxon.

He pressed his hands down his body to identify the majority of his weaponry, before finally placing the blasted hat on his head, and shining the silver strip of metal across his breast pocket with a risen eyebrow of interest.

How quaint. It appeared as though he was a first lieutenant today.

He marched out into the hallway with a cigarette between his lips, tipping his hat keenly to passing 'comrades' as they eased through the corridors to their designated sleeping quarters. The clean-shaven brunette did little more than this for the first little while, entirely familiar with the inside of the building, not only from multiple reviews of blueprints, but because it had been a governmental residence not a day previous that he had been in on missions far too many times. The annoying jingle of the metal decor on the carefully tailored boots of his uniform were more than a piss-off but he did his best to ignore it as he tugged the white leather gloves on his hands keenly, turning a corner.

"Hey! Who're you?"

Ah, it was only a matter of time. Turning, he was almost surprised to see someone as minute as a cadet staring back at him. The tawny-haired male met his dark eyes, before letting his eyes slide down to the silver strip over his pocket. Christophe simply looked at him narrowly, lifting his chin, and sliding a bit of an English accent into his French one to give the misguidance that he had been residing as a loyal man of England for some time.

"Some re-zpect for your higher ranks, cadet," he drawled briskly, rapping his palm on the side of the kid's face. Looking a mix between embarrassed and insulted, he thumbed over his shoulder to the dorming area. "Paris tomorrow. You best be watching your arse, if you ever plan to get somewhere in zis war. Hail England."

"H-hail England!"

The insult was completely drowned out by embarrassment now as the youngster saluted him respectfully and took off. Christophe simply shook his head, almost feeling bad. The kid would be one of many to die in this war, and so early, too. It was sad. He barely looked a day past nineteen.

Trapezing through the corridors still however, he rested the gun on his shoulder carefully as he strolled along, not making eye contact with anyone unless it was necessary. No, he had people to find. Not just those of whom were his targets, but those of whom were his potential allies on better days. He always worked alone, of course... but it was always nice to have ears on the inside.

"Ahhh, zair you are, ... Lieutenant... Laurant." He turned carefully, looking at the cadet that had called for him. Ah, speak of the devil. It was nice to not have to search the whole godforsaken building for someone he knew. Nodding carefully at the Renegade as he stared at him as though he was criticizing him for taking on a higher ranked position than himself, he was pleased to see him dressed in the same ironed uniform. Brushing his shoulder off as he tapped his cigarette carelessly, he nodded at the 'traitor'.

"Ah, Dubois. Fine time as any, non? We have some fi-nair zings to discuss, do we not? Please, come. To my post."

The cadet followed him along as they strolled together, now looking must more trustworthy as a pair of soldiers as opposed to the singular one that he had been earlier. Sliding onto a balcony, the two looked at eachother, and 'Dubois' began speaking immediately in code, though his gestures told Christophe everything he needed to know.

"Ze wind eez coming in heavy from ze west tonight. Gunman are enleesteed to eizzair side and our focus eez below on eizzair side, just een case of Frensh invasion." He gestured to the furthest window, to the West, where Gregory's resting quarters would be. It was in perfect adjacency to the clock tower, making for an easy escape. There were going to be guards in both corridors, in case any assassins would show to break through and try to kill him - in case Christophe showed up to try and kill him. But ten guards were nothing for Christophe, guns or no guns. Dubois continued.

"As you know, of course, ze windows weel lock at ze crack of midnight and zere will be no eens and outs. Patrols weel be locked for ze rest of ze night until dawn, when we will move eento Paris. Our commandair eez a strong man, he haz everything under control."

Cristophe nodded slowly, speaking back in a similar code. "Tonight, Rennes, tomorrow, Paris. Our commander can do no ill work. 'E eez a strong man." Christophe narrowed his eyes slightly, mouth a straight line. "'E always has been. Tomorrow, organize a meeting weez our people. Zere are big mattairs to deescuss."

The cadet nodded solidly, handing him an envelope, before taking off. Christophe took another few careful drags of his cigarette before he headed back inside, making his way through corridors and dipping in and out of patrolling balconies, as though making sure that each man was doing his job. Eventually he came to the main hall that would lead him to Gregory's room, and he stood at the end of the hall in silence. The guards outside conversed between themselves wearily. Christophe gazed down at the envelope in his hands, the royal seal closing it into confidentiality in the form of a stamp of red wax. The queen's own lips had touched this piece of paper by force at gunpoint, but Christophe DeLorne couldn't have cared less.

Plucking a decorative platter off of the wall almost lazily, with his gun still strapped to his back, he set the envelope neatly at the centre of the platter and began down the guarded hallway.

Immediately there was an erratic clicking of guns as they pointed in his direction, but he simply halted holding out the platter to display the sealed envelope as he bowed in respect, putting on his best English accent after many years of practise.

"A notice for our Commander, from the Queen herself. Please, this is a royal message of urgency."

A few guns cocked backward, but not before a man stepped forward to carefully examine the envelope, holding it up to the light only to reveal paper inside and nothing more. The seal was validated, and his gun was taken carefully from his back after a further examination. "The Commander is resting. Where is your position to deliver such a message at such a fine hour?"

"There is no time in the line of duty, sir. If you please, a moment. I'll even be so polite as to knock."

And he did just that, the careful rap of a fist on the door with his gloved knuckles, the platter in his other hand. He looked quite different now, and with his carefully practised accent in place and his uniform on, even Gregory couldn't shoot him on sight as a traitor if he recognized him. It was fair game. All he wanted to do was... talk, of course.

Gregory had been so close to finding that much needed rest; sleep did not come easily for the blonde, not after the events that had transpire in the last fifteen years or so. Especially not since joining the military at eighteen. A heightened sense of awareness came with a price, and Gregory was lucky to get more than an hour of sleep on a regular night. This had been one of the nights where he was starting to think he would get a relatively decent rest…

And then the knock came.

Gregory sighed, sliding out of bed and hastily pulling on pajamas, fixing his hair in the mirror before walking over and opening it. There was a dark-haired man in the English uniform standing there, and while he looked vaguely familiar, Gregory was not one to jump to conclusions. His shrewd blue eyes scanned the other immediately, taking in the scent of tobacco that clung to the man. That was what triggered his memory.

Christophe glanced up into those murderous blue eyes with his own of a deeper, muddy hue, his expression respectful and flat. "Good evening, Commander. A private note from the Queen, if you are not too busy. It is urgent." He let no twinkle of familiarity dance behind his eyes in his well-kept shape, playing ignorant. "If you please."

Gregory showed no sign of recognition, masking his face as carefully as he could, giving the other no sign that he recognized the brunette. Rather, he lifted the envelope, looked it over, and allowed his eyes to fall on Christophe again, sizing him up. Gregory nodded, placing a hand on the other man's arm and looking at one of the guards. "I need to speak to this man alone. If I am not out in an hour, then come and check."

"Sir, are you sure you should be alone with him?" One of the captains stepped forward, looking uncertain and unwilling to let Christophe alone with Gregory.

Gregory glanced at the man and spoke, his voice rather haughty."He is obviously one of us. If you would like to complain, take it up with someone else. I need to speak with this man."

Before anyone else could protest, including Christophe, Gregory had pulled the other man into the bedroom, closing the door behind them but not locking it. The French man stood respectively at a distance as he entered the room, admiring its surrounding innocently enough for a quick moment with an unplaced expression before he entered further.

Gregory walked over to his mirror and looked in it, his eyes flickering to Christophe's reflection. He fixed his hair again and then turned, looking worn out and tired, like he always felt. The blonde spoke, his voice soft. "Christophe, I know you aren't on our side. You're far too much of a loyalist. Why are you here, then?"

Gregory wanted to think, out of some misguided emotions, that Christophe was there for him. He knew that wasn't true, though, and couldn't let feelings he had been harbouring for years get in the way of killing the other man if that's what it came to.

He sighed slightly, messing his blonde hair up before going to sit on the bed. "Christophe, I won't hesitate to kill you if that is what I need to do. Now, say what you came here to say. You always have a reason."

He hadn't talked to the other in who knew how many years and this was their reunion? Terrible.

Christophe listened to his friend talk with a vacant nonchalance as he adjusted the collar and again slid his gloves back on more properly. Patting himself down a moment, he sighed, searching the crisp fit of the uniform for the pack of cigarettes that the man had drawn the one from that burnt his hand earlier. Pulling it from the left behind pocket of his trousers, he tugged out a fag and lit it up. Natives. How sad. "But you are 'ezeetating right now. You are eendeefrent to ze lives of ozzairs now, are you not? Take a look for yourself."

He dismissed the rest of the conversation for the time being as he approached Gregory's window, peering out over the city after firmly placing his fist against the glass. His country. Despite his cold front to everything he did, within his heart, he ached. To see so many of his people destroyed, for no reason. The same could be said for the English side, but a fair fight would have been to kill political figures back. Seizing the country and obliterating everything in their path seemed hardly necessary, in Christophe's eyes. Then again, it was a government against a government. It was his political customers now who had ordered him to do these things that had the English now trampling their entire country. Bitterly, he stared out the window longer, before turning away from the cool pane of glass.

Folding his hands carefully behind his back with the letter now pinched between his index and middle finger, he licked his lips slowly before setting the platter carefully down on Gregory's desk. Turning to face the half-dressed gentleman now, he removed his hat and tipped it, before setting it back onto his head.

"I am ash'ually, 'onestly, 'ere to give you zees lettair."

Strutting across the room carefully, he approached Gregory's bedside, standing directly before him now as he handed it towards the commander carefully, and cautiously. Greg looked up at Chris when the other approached him, taking the envelope and running his slim, pale fingers over the seal easily. Both of them were in sparring distance now. However, with the intent that Christophe presently had for killing the captain of the brigade, he could not say the same for Gregory Thorne. The thought was depressing, for Christophe, at least.

"I am also 'ere to tell you zat you are a dees-grace. I am so deesappointed een you. I zought you wair a better man zan zees." Chris rose a hand sharply, but not violently, his true anger over the whole situation finally shining through as he gestured dramatically to the outdoors. "I do nah' undairstand your moteeves. Howevair, it eez nevair an excuse. Zees eez sickening. You disgust me as you smile on our televisions. I zought you should know."

Gregory sat at the edge of the bed, tight-lipped and empty eyed as the only man he had ever cared about denounced his actions and pretty much put his disgust on display. He stayed emotionless, though, his mask carefully in place as he attempted to play off how badly this hurt him. This was his job now. He had worked for years to get where he was at the moment; he was successful, plastered across televisions worldwide, all eyes on him, and the year before he had been the most eligible bachelor in all of Great Britain, the fact that he was gay falling to the wayside.

Chris gave the blond a firm look, but made no move to harm him in any way. Still peering down at him as he waited patiently for him to open the envelope, he fell silent as he sipped the nicotine from his cigarette, shaking his head with a vacant sigh. "I am alzo here to warn you zat ze moment your troops ztep into Paris, Monsieur Atkins will die. It iz undair your choice how to take zis information. It iz all I know, and all I am obligated to say."

The news of General Atkins' assassination did not bother Greg in the slightest. Sacrifices had to be made in order to advance. If Atkins needed to be the next necessary casualty, then so be it. Gregory would take his place. The blonde had sworn his love to Mother England, his homeland, and he would allow himself to be assassinated if that's what it took to take another city.

Once Paris fell, France would fall.

It was not a difficult concept.

Greg stood once Christophe was finished, dropping envelope on the bed, and put his hand on Christophe's neck, blue eyes piercing the dark-haired boy's mud-coloured hues. He ran his thumb over Christophe's cheek, speaking in a soft, intimate tone, one they had shared many times in the past. "Christophe… You are my oldest friend. You know me better than anyone. If you think that I am a cruel person or anything of the like, then I suppose we both had each other pegged incorrectly. And for that, I am sorry."

Christophe could have laughed at his face as he stared back at his day-old friend with his usually cold stone expression. Admirably Gregory had also hardened over the years but Christophe saw through those baby blues as he always had, reading straight into him like nothing. He didn't move as he the pale hands of his comrade crept onto his face, glancing wearily to the side as his best friend caressed his skin like they had just seen each other yesterday.

Gregory let his blue eyes fall once more, gazing at the lushly carpeted floor for a few long moments before letting them meet Christophe's again. He stared at the other's lips for a moment before chuckling wryly, although the laugh held no humour whatsoever.

The blonde glanced at the clock; ten minutes had passed since he had let Christophe in the room. That left them with fifty. The thirty year old spoke, voice holding that same intimate, haunting tone that was reserved only for Christophe. "Christophe. I don't care how much you hate me right now. Come to bed with me. One last time. After this… we never have to see each other again. Fifty minutes is all I ask of you."

He studied the other for a reaction before plucking the cigarette out of Christophe's mouth, holding it in his own fingers and then kissing the other man softly. Chris had always tasted like tobacco, despite the infrequent, spaced apart kisses. It was a taste Gregory would never, ever forget.

Almost unwillingly, Christophe's mouth parted slightly to only better the kiss as Gregory's lips collided with his own, responding immediately despite the decade and some that had passed between them with his own heart caught up in his throat.

The blonde pulled away, touching Christophe's face again, gently, as he took a puff off the other's cigarette. "I know you haven't forgotten, Chris."

One night.

One night had ruined damn near thirteen years of friendship.

That one night, when they had been seventeen and stupid. Gregory would never, ever forget it. The pain of their parting after such a bittersweet night had been so much… too much pain for a teenager to bear. It had started Gregory's path towards the military, was the reason he was commander of hundreds of thousands of troops, waiting at his beck and call.

It was Christophe's fault that Gregory was no more than a tool of the military.

Christophe was aware. He was aware of his fault in this outcome, but never truly blamed himself for the whole thing. Their decisions had been mutual, but when the time had come, his family had needed him, and his departure had been quick. He'd written some letters but had never found the power within him to send them. His life soon became that of the careful mercenary one, and here he was so many years later, simply doing work with no fun. No time for relationships. No time for bouncing back and forth between his home and America anymore for dreamt-up summers of the good life that he figured he might have had at some point.

Maybe it was his fault, after all.

However, even if he obliged to his friend's request, they would be seeing each other again, and Christophe knew there was no serious naivety that strong within his friend, whether he was stupidly working for the English armada or not. Licking his lips daintily to contain and savour Gregory's taste, however, he took the cigarette back from his friend and outed it carelessly on a cup holder on the mahogany bedside table, pushing his friend back down against the bed and crawling over top of him with ease.

"You say zeze zings to me like some common woman in ze second world war bidding her newlywed 'uzband to ze troops..." he murmured against the other's ear, carefully running his hands up his friend's side beneath his shirt with care, spine tingling at the reunion. "You know I do nah' care if I die before I am fourty. I 'ave a feefty-year-old woman 'oo eez crying right now, waiting for me at 'ome, whezzair I come dead or alive. And what do you 'ave? Nuzzing."

His words were cruel to conflict his actions as he kissed along the commander's jawline carefully, sliding his hands along his arms now and pinning them above his head with one hand, the other rested against the other man's stomach as Christophe's hat tipped off his head to the bedspread and allowed his previously neat brown hair to fall around his face in that usually haphazardly way that it always had in the past.

"You will die before me in zees way you are going now. Far too soon," he said, and leaned down again to take the Englishman's lips for his own, his grip tightening around the wrists pinned above his head while his other hand carefully withdrew a revolver, clicking off the safety and replacing his lips with the mouth of his gun in Gregory's mouth.

"So you 'ave two options. You can come weez me quietly out zat window," he purred against the other man's lips calmly, "or I can jus' blow off your pretty 'ead now when you go calling for 'elp, and I can die atop you weez twenty or more bullet 'oles in my back." He continued to hold his friend's wrists firmly, hooking his boots between Gregory's thighs to keep him from kicking him off.

"Besides... you know zat zey kill fags in your military." He smiled in pity, eyes boring pained holes into Gregory's blue ones as he waited for a decision, or a counter to his actions.

Gregory had seen it coming.

How could he not have? Christophe was there for a purpose, and as much as Gregory wanted it to be, the dark-haired man was not there for Gregory's sexual needs, despite the fact that the blonde had stayed chaste for these last thirteen years. He had never looked at another person sexually, hadn't had sex with anyone since Christophe and he had parted ways. Christophe had been his first and last.

If there was one thing Gregory was, it was loyal. He willingly would have spent the rest of his life in a self-condemned chastity belt if it meant he could stay loyal to Christophe, at least until they had officially broken things off.

And here he was, because of that loyalty, a gun shoved in his mouth and the only person he ever loved looking at him with pity in his brown eyes. No love. Just pity. And that hurt more than anything else. Gregory looked at Christophe for the longest time before, finally, managing to rise, the gun still in his mouth and his wrists still in Christophe's hands. He looked at his former best friend for the longest time and then, just like that, all emotion was gone from his face, nothing lingering behind his eyes. His face, eyes, and body language was dead, empty, and he merely nodded, eyes flickering towards the window to indicate his choice.

There was no sadder look on a man's face in that moment then Christophe had ever seen, despite there being absolutely no readable expression at all.

Greg didn't care anymore. It hurt too much to play off Christophe's words and actions as he usually did when the other said things to him. He had spent a long, long time in their childhood ignoring the insults that spouted from his best friend. He couldn't do it anymore.

Gently, Gregory moved the gun out of his mouth and looked at Christophe. "I will come with you, Christophe. If that is what you want, then that is what you'll get."

He watched his former best friend with those same emotionless eyes, waiting for Christophe to take him wherever they were going. The other man had done it again. In just a few short moments, Christophe had managed to break his heart all over again. He had done it before; Gregory had woken up expecting to see Christophe in bed with him and his dark-haired friend had been nowhere in sight, making Greg feel like a cheap slut and like their years of friendship had been thrown away.

He had clung to the hope that Christophe would come back to him.

Well, now he had and there was no reason to continue to cling to the love that obviously meant nothing. He spoke, his voice changing tones to something icy, cold and distant. "If you're kidnapping me, then do it. I don't want to be around you any longer than I absolutely must be."

In the rush of their closing time stamp, Chris was mad at himself somewhat that he had no time to talk it out. Instead, he snatched the case of a pillow with his gun hand, still with the blond's arms held high above his head as he kept his eyes on him. Carefully he stuck the closed end into his mouth, tearing the material with ease and tightening the ribbons of cloth around Gregory's wrists after sinking them behind his back to ensure no resistance. The second pillow case was stripped for different purposes as he slid the sack over his friend's head and drew the strong on it, leaving enough room for circulation of air so it wouldn't get too stuffy.

Upon finishing tying his knots with care, he lifted Gregory to his feet after tucking his gun back into the concealment of his uniform, swapping his captive's gun off of his table moments after and pocketing it as well for safe keeping, before pausing, and lifting the edge of the pillow up with his index finger to expose Gregory's mouth, leaving a soft kiss on his pale lips and then drawing away, voice quiet.

"Jus' so long as you do nah' say anyzing zat will corrupt zees escape, I promise, I will nah' 'urt you anymore."

It was way too late for that. Gregory, had he been all right, would be giving his life to keep Christophe away from his commanders, from his men, try to save some people… He was not all right. He was nowhere near all right. His heart hurt. It didn't ache, it wasn't a dull throb, it literally pained him every time it beat. His chest was tight in agony, his head hurt, his body, which was healthy and fit, was in all sorts of pain. For the first time in his thirty years of life, Gregory wanted to die.

With that closing statement left open to the Commander's own interpretation, he tugged the pillowcase back down again carefully, before walking to the door, locking it, and then strolling to the window with Gregory in tow, wasting no time in jacking the lock clasps and sliding it open with his shoulder. He snatched his hat back before he left, and glanced at the note on the bed with a short smirk as he tossed the hat back onto his head after sweeping his hair back into it's more army-like shape. As he lead Gregory out onto the shingles of the roof top, he turned toward the room, biting off the top of his lighter, and draining the fluid onto the rug. A match followed, closing the curtains, and then the window as the plush carpet caught flame.

The journey across the roof was tedious and dangerous, but there was little difficulty aside from tile-sliding as they crossed the axis of the building with care. He lead Gregory from behind unless there was a drop to accomplish, at least feeling somewhat better now that he knew Gregory would at least be a bit agreeable. The silence between them was destructive though, and he knew that whatever friendship they had had was on the finest of silk strings at the moment, hanging by a spider's tail, but this mission was of more importance, within good reason.

Returning to the balcony where he had deposited his things, earlier, he passed the chimney where the body of the lieutenant he had haplessly murdered now rested. The stench of burning resonated through the air as smoke poured from the chimney, likely crisping the corpse, but he ignored it, sliding Gregory carefully down into the window after checking the bedroom to ensure that it hadn't been tampered with since his last escapade there. After collecting his bag and extra clothing, he went about the task of guiding Gregory down the building and back toward the clocktower, where the rest of his things would be located.

Needless to say, the journey nearer to ground level was going to be less than easy.

"Hey. You. Where are you going?"

His grip on Gregory's arm's tightened, but the rest of his composure was as collected as ever as he tilted his hat to the gentleman that had approached him, nodding toward the bagged Gregory. "More filth."

The man fell silent, glancing at the night attire. "A hide away, I suppose?"

Christophe merely nodded, offering a rough grab to the top of his best friends head as though to emphasize his business before abandoning the scout without another word before he was forced to talk more. Struggling with an English accent was difficult, particularly when you had been idling away speaking little English at all in your home country on and off for a whole decade. Multilingual from his multiple business partners, it was no shocker that he had some accents nailed better than others, but it was still a chore, and one he felt better avoiding.

He checked his watch as he collected his things from the top of the tower after a few similar situations, sighing and strapping his pack on Gregory to make it look like a reverse role even more so. He strapped a better amount of artillery to his back, however now, as he retrieved his belongings, and continued their blind journey after checking his watch. It would be about five more minutes before the guards would start struggling with the door in a blind panic as smoke finally started to leak out from beneath Gregory's bedroom door.

Christophe properly perched his prisoner atop his motorbike in the front, more so to keep him from leaning off the back and attempting some kind of suicide, and also simply because it was nice to have the blond man between him and the handlebars. Of course in Christophe's world helmets were hardly a thing to be concerned for in the face of a mission with far more dangerous aspects, and they sped away through the dark.


End file.
